


Masked

by Lemony_Snicket (TheHigherDissidency)



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:06:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22035283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHigherDissidency/pseuds/Lemony_Snicket
Summary: In this world, there are significantly more than seven types of people. In fact, until humanity as a whole reaches the dawn of cloning people in both body and mind, there is exactly the same amount of people, personality wise, as they are people, population wise. This number scales upwards and downwards on a very linear and simple rate of one person per person.But for the sake of this argument, let us assume there are only seven people in the world.
Kudos: 11





	Masked

In this world, there are significantly more than seven types of people. In fact, until humanity as a whole reaches the dawn of cloning people in both body and mind, there is exactly the same amount of people, personality wise, as they are people, population wise. This number scales upwards and downwards on a very linear and simple rate of one person per person.

But for the sake of this argument, let us assume there are only seven people in the world. Seven ways to make up a person. Everyone has shards and wedges of these people, but they primarily are one of the seven.

Sometimes you are the defiant, creative one, who refuses to fit into a figurative mold, like a particularly annoying piece of wax I was trying to sculpt the other day, in which no matter how much force is applied, it refuses to bend.

Violet Baudelaire was very much the defiant creative one. She was not afraid to speak her mind, not afraid to show the world what she was capable of. She was afraid of failure. Not in the conceited sense like most male, female, and non-binary citizens, but but because if she fails now, what stops her from failing when she needs to succeed or something is lost?

We both know, of course, that this isn't a valid fear for Violet. She is resourceful, wise, and fully capable of success. But everytime the bolt fits wrong, everytime her hand slips — even despite the nervous tic that formed years later, distorting her hand balance —, she feels scared that it'll be the last time she can slip up.

Maybe you're the reserved one with an engine if a mind. You could be the type who writes and reads nonstop, maybe even swooping to a low enough point to write fanfiction for a non-paying rate for a group of devoted fans on Archive of Our Own.

Klaus Baudelaire had never written fanfiction. But he was a reader. And he read often, even hurting himself to get that last chapter in. There were nights he wouldn't sleep, and nights where he would skip dinner, telling his sisters to divide it in half since he's not hungry, and he's busy anyway.

Of course, there were other reasons. Scared that he needs to save the food, or that it's poisoned, or that it's just not in the budget, so he silently decides to let Sunny and Violet have his share so they won't go hungry and won't feel bad taking it. His stomach growls, but at least his sisters are happy, and he's content with his novel.

Maybe you are the loud and outspoken one. Many a person starts this way, as a toddler. You're curious, and you have no filter, which angers a wide populace of people who aren't yourself.

Sunny Baudelaire comes to mind. A happy soul, who seems curious and filter free. She wants to know and hear everything, and she never wants to feel out of the loop. She wants to make her voice heard, and heard loud.

Of course, she's scared of the idea of being tricked or scammed again. Staying in the loop is a surefire way to not be out of the loop when your last comes back to haunt you. In similar ways, being loud is a good way to make your disappearance stand out more, and maybe get life saving help.

You could be the completely quiet and creative outlet. A silent creator, pouring your heart and soul into things that you never share or speak of, and I stead keeping your happiness to yourself.

Isadora Quagmire comes to mind. A poet, far beyond her years. She writes poems, tons of them, but only a scrap ever get out. It's because these poems are a part of her heart and soul, and aren't for everyone to see.

It's also because she's hateful of her work. Works she's not finished because she's crying while she writes. Poems and limericks she finished and had nightmares about that night. Tales of a relationship she would be shunned for, and tales of a past she'd rather forget. Maybe writing it down will be cathartic, but it's not.

You can be a timid and outgoing type. Curious, bit preferring to get information from the sidelines, akin to a bugged cell phone, or perhaps a cellphone that has Facebook installed.

Duncan Quagmire is timid and outgoing. He listens, and waits, gathering information to compile and write about, a more reliable news reporter than the Daily Punctilio could ever dream.

He's being silent of choice, he says to himself. It's not because he suspects everyone lies, or misguided him. Or he's scared he'll be targeted for knowing the right or wrong things. That's just an added benefit for never worrying. As he says.

And you can be bold and brash. Loud, charismatic. The kind of person where you walk in a room and everyone either buys you a free drink or tries to poison your drink.

Quigley Quagmire was bold and brash. His filters was lacking, but his heart wasn't. Trustworthy, supportive, able to gain control of a situation and stop it's spiral through hell.

It's a facade, however, that he puts up. Maybe if he's popular, less people will hurt him. If he's more popular, maybe he'll be mourned when he died for real. He doubts it though.

And there's the enigmatic type. Who refuses to write half the time, using false names upon false names. Scared of the darkness of the mysteries of the world.

I am that person, writing day in and night out, just to make a living and tell the story that needs to be told. It doesn't pay well. Almost at all. But it's enough, and it's reassuring.

I may be a target, and on the run. I may be a wreck, emotionally, and on the brink of breaking, physically. But it'll be worth it when I can rest, assuming I don't die before then.

There are more people. Brash but rude, timid and shy. And each person has their happy sides and sad sides.

But we live under a mask, even now. A mask that shows us as happy, functional people.

And we never take the mask off.


End file.
